


breaking & entering

by bibliosexual



Series: Tumblr fic [14]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale Deserves Nice Things, Derek is a Failwolf, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 10:30:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10511931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosexual/pseuds/bibliosexual
Summary: Based off the prompt, "[burglar gently wakes me] You live like this?"





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [breaking & entering (Traducción)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637205) by [Polyphemus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyphemus/pseuds/Polyphemus)



> 2tired2care prompted: _Pst hi I LOVE YOUR FICS you have no idea how much they give me life <3 <3 I came across this really cute (and frankly heartbreaking) AU: "[burgler gently wakes me] you live like this?" (stolen from a post I saw on fb) and I kinda just need Stiles to do everything he can to make Derek's life better? THANK YOU SO MUCH :D_
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://bibliosexxual.tumblr.com/post/158133675601/pst-hi-i-love-your-fics-you-have-no-idea-how-much) on my tumblr!

Derek definitely went to sleep alone. He always does, these days. It doesn’t explain why he drifts awake in the middle of the night to the feeling of someone lightly poking his shoulder.

It’s probably not a good sign that when he opens his eyes and sees a gangly teenage boy in a red hoodie and grubby-looking black fingerless gloves standing over him, he doesn’t startle. His claws don’t come out; his eyes don’t flash. He just feels… resigned.

“You live like this?” the guy says, soft. Almost pitying. “I mean. You actually _live_ here?”

That seems too obvious, not to mention too insulting, to merit a response. “What are you doing here?” Derek asks instead. His voice comes out low and rough. This is the first time in days he’s had any reason to say anything. “This is private property.”

The guy shifts on his feet and sticks his hands under his armpits uncomfortably. “Okay, straight to the awkward questions. I like that.”

Derek waits.

The guy sighs. “Look, I didn’t know this was _your_ house. I mean… it is your house, right? You’re not just, I dunno, squatting here?”

Derek shakes his head.

“Okay,” the guy says. “So, um, sorry. I seriously thought this place had been abandoned years ago.”

Derek looks pointedly down at himself and then back up.

“Uh, yeah,” the guy mutters. “Obviously I was mistaken. We’ve established that. So… I found some stuff on YouTube on how to pick locks and — Wait, do you know what YouTube is? Do you go on the Internet, ever? Does your creepy haunted mansion come with wifi?”

Derek glares.

“Okay, never mind. Anyway. So I found these videos on lock-picking and I wanted to try it out, and I knew this place was abandoned — I mean, I thought I knew — and I was thinking it would be a victimless crime kind of thing, but then your door wasn’t even locked, and even if it had been, there are all these holes in the walls and all these windows with no glass in them anymore, and… Listen, you really shouldn’t live like this, dude. It’s not safe. Anybody could come in.”

“People like you, you mean,” Derek says. By this point he’s almost cautiously amused, but he keeps his face stern.

“No, people like… Bad people. Burglars.”

“ _You’re_ not a burglar?”

“No! Jesus, no. I’m just your average high school student.”

Derek raises his eyebrows.

“Okay,” the guy revises, “so I’m just your not- _quite_ -average high school student… who was kinda curious about breaking and entering. I’m going to be a detective someday; I need to know these things.” He holds up his hands, palms out. “Definitely no burgling in progress, though, I swear. Except, um. When I thought this place was abandoned, I was thinking about maybe taking a trophy so I could prove to Scott that I was here? But obviously I’m not going to do that _now_.”

“Thanks,” Derek says dryly.

The guy appears to miss the sarcasm. He nods like, _You’re welcome_ , and goes on, “Anyway, you do need some home security, dude. I mean it. Theoretically, there could be burglars in the future.”

Derek shrugs. “There’s nothing worth stealing here.”

“Dude. You’re missing my point by, like, a mile.”

Derek doesn’t know what to say to that, so he settles on another shrug.

There’s a bit of silence after that while Derek eyes this guy, curious. At first glance he’s nothing much to look at. Pale. Skinny. Baggy jeans. Brown eyes. Brown hair, buzzed short. Closer up, though, there’s something appealing in the long lines of his body, and something about his face that draws Derek in — the delicate curve of his mouth, maybe, or the intelligent gleam in his eyes, like he’s thinking about a hundred things at once.

Right now, it’s not too hard to guess what those hundred thoughts might be. He’s looking around with quiet horror at Derek’s bedroom. No doubt he’s taking in the bean bag chair Derek is using as a bed, the open suitcase on the floor that holds all of Derek’s spare clothes, and the far corner where there’s a hole in the ceiling — a _small_ hole, though — and some weeds starting to grow up through the floorboards. It’s like this guy thinks he’s standing in a museum exhibit. He doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave.

“I’m guessing I don’t need to call the cops on you,” Derek says at last.

The guy winces, focusing back in on Derek. “Uh, yeah, it would be really cool of you if you could not do that. My dad would kill me. He’d arrest me and then he’d kill me.” Derek must look confused, because the guy clarifies, “I’m Stiles Stilinski? My dad’s the sheriff, Sheriff Stilinski? So he can do that. Arrest people. Except, you know, not me. Hopefully.”

“Hopefully,” Derek agrees, and this time he can’t quite hold back the little smile he can feel tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, so.” Stiles smiles back, a soft, private kind of smile, and takes a few steps toward the door. “Thanks for that. It’s very decent of you. So… I’ll just go now. Let you get back to sleep and all.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. This has been the most bizarre conversation he’s had in years, and he’s secretly a bit disappointed that it’s over. It’s probably not normal that when Stiles — who’s _just finished breaking into Derek’s house_ — pauses in the doorway, Derek feels a little pleased about it.

“Hey,” Stiles says, “I mean it about the locks. Get some.”

Derek lies back on his bean bag chair after that and listens, mentally tracing Stiles’ progress. He goes back across the hallway and down the stairs, floorboards creaking under his every step, and opens the front door, which lets out a harsh, drawn-out groan under his hand. Then he’s clattering across the porch and crunching away through the underbrush, slamming a car door, cranking the engine, and driving away. It’s amazing he didn’t wake Derek up when he broke in earlier, Derek thinks with something bordering suspiciously on fondness. He’s far too noisy to ever be a burglar.

When he’s gone, the house feels a lot quieter than before, and very, very empty.

*

Derek’s not exactly surprised when this same guy knocks on his door bright and early Saturday morning, two days later. He could hear it as soon as Stiles’ Jeep turned off the main road a mile from Derek’s house and headed up into the Preserve, blasting Duran Duran, and he could hear it when Stiles parked right outside the house and hopped out, his heart racing.

So yeah, by the time Stiles knocks on the door, Derek has been expecting him for a while. On the other hand, he is surprised Stiles is bothering with knocking after what happened last time. He’s also not sure what Stiles is even doing here.

That becomes clear when he opens the door and Stiles cheerfully hefts a toolbox up for Derek to see. “I brought a new lock for your front door! And some nails and a bunch of spare wood to board up the holes in the wall and the windows. And a tarp for that hole in the roof. It’s just a temporary fix, of course, but it’s better than nothing.”

At first Derek is too stunned to speak. Finally, he asks, “Is this some kind of apology for breaking into my house? Because that’s really not necessary. If you really feel like you need to give me something, it could just be, I dunno, a coffee. You don’t have to —”

Stiles sighs so heavily it’s basically an interruption and starts unpacking his toolbox on the floor of Derek’s porch. “Yeah, I do have to, or I’ll never forgive myself when you get murdered.”

And, well, that’s unexpected. And weirdly touching. People normally take one look at Derek and seem to assume he’s the one about to be doing all the murdering and maiming.

“Also, I can do it,” Stiles adds. “I’m totally qualified. I read like fifteen different Wikipedia articles last night.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Oh, well, in that case.”

Stiles stands back up, determinedly wielding a hammer. “Dude, just let me do this. I’m not going to be able to stop worrying about it otherwise.”

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Derek says, because it’s true. People never worry about Derek, and it’s fine. Really. Derek is fine. He’s always fine.

Stiles huffs. “Okay, but I’m going to anyway, so. Are you going to step aside and let me fix your lock, or do I have to stand here and argue with you first? I’ll do it. I have a whole speech ready about Beacon Hills’ seedy criminal underbelly, and trust me, I know. I have a police scanner in my bedroom, and I know all the crime statistics for the past year at least.”

He’s obviously not going to give up without a fight, and honestly… Derek hasn’t been in a fighting mood for a long, long time. He sighs. “Fine. You can fix the lock. But only under my supervision, and only if you agree not to sue me if you accidentally nail your hand to the door.”

“Gotcha. I’ll just focus on nailing other things,” Stiles says with a wink.

Derek can’t believe the nerve of this guy. He’s weirdly charmed by it, but he glares anyway, on principle.

*

They finish with all of Stiles’ planned repairs by noon.

Stiles wipes his hands on his jeans, steps back from the house, and turns to look Derek up and down consideringly. And then he says, casual, like an afterthought, “You’re a werewolf, right?”

Derek has him pinned up against the wall a second later, unable to hold in a growl, his claws sinking into the soft cotton of Stiles’ hoodie. He should’ve known Stiles was too good to be true. He doesn’t _smell_ supernatural, though. He doesn’t even smell like a hunter, or like magic, or — anything, really. Just plain old human, a little sweaty now after working on the house. It’s innocuous enough to raise Derek’s hackles.

Stiles swallows and brings his hands up to rest gently over Derek’s fists where they’re gripping Stiles’ shoulders. “Yep,” he says, “okay. I thought so.”

“How did you know?” Derek demands, speaking slowly around the fangs crowding his mouth. “And what do you want from me?”

“At this moment?” Stiles taps Derek’s knuckles. “For you to stop leaving holes in my favorite hoodie. That would be nice.”

With effort, Derek retracts his claws and takes a step back.

Stiles brushes down his clothes rather pointedly and says, “Thank you.”

Derek refuses to feel guilty. Stiles can’t just walk up to his house and accuse him of being a werewolf and not expect Derek to react. That’s not how the world works. “Explain,” he growls.

“Not much to explain. I’ve got werewolf friends. And once you know what to look for, it’s not exactly rocket science to identify you guys.“

“What are you going to do about it?” Derek asks, wary.

“I dunno. I guess that depends on you. Do you like going to the movies?”

Derek blinks, completely taken off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m getting some friends together,” Stiles says easily. “Werewolf friends included. We’re gonna see _Fantastic Beasts_ this Friday night. You could come.”

Derek hasn’t been to the movies since before the fire. His family didn’t go often. The Hale house had a home theater in the basement, specially calibrated for sensitive werewolf eyes and ears. Still, he remembers liking it the few times he and his sisters did hit up the theater downtown. It was always an event. “I like movies,” he says now, cautiously.

Stiles beams and punches Derek’s arm lightly. It’s a brave move, considering Derek’s fangs are still out. “Awesome,” he says. “See you at seven, then.”

*

Derek shows up expecting maybe two or three people besides Stiles. Instead, Stiles has amassed a small army, or so it seems to Derek. Derek stops dead in intimidated surprise when he sees them all.

Stiles sees him standing there and amiably leads the whole herd his way, then starts in on introductions without a pause for breath. It’s too fast and furious for Derek to keep up — Boyd, Erica, Kira, Allison, Scott, Lydia, Danny… They all look friendly, at least. As crowds go, it’s not too intimidating. It relaxes him that he can tell at a whiff that some of them are fellow shapeshifters, just like Stiles promised.

During the movie, Stiles sits next to Derek and lets Derek share his popcorn. Afterwards he hangs back from the group, walking a little ways back with Derek as he absently kicks along a random pebble on the ground. It makes Derek a little nervous, wondering if Stiles is going to expect him to talk a lot. He doesn’t. Instead, he fills the silence easily for both of them with a long ramble about the movie. Derek read the Harry Potter books, most of them anyway, as they came out; he thought he knew plenty just from that. Not as much as Stiles, though. He can spout all sorts of trivia.

Stiles seems to be enjoying it, too, just having someone to listen to him. Still, Derek feels like he hasn’t been a lot of fun. He hasn’t cracked any jokes, or warmed up much to any of Stiles’ friends. It’s a surprise when they get to their cars and Stiles pauses by Derek’s, says they’re all going to head over to iHop now if Derek wants to join them.

Derek appreciates the thought, and the fact that Stiles doesn’t look judgey when he bows out. It’s been a lot of socializing for one night.

“Maybe next time, though,” Derek says, and means it. Stiles smiles like he can tell.

*

A couple weeks later, Stiles gives Derek a cell phone. "Don’t freak out about it,” he says, shoving his hands in his back pockets. “It’s not like I went out and bought you a brand new iPhone or anything. It’s just my old flip phone.”

“I can see that,” Derek says. He might live alone in the woods, but he’s not _that_ out of the loop. He used to have a phone a lot like this, back in high school.

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “I was keeping it in the Jeep for emergencies, but then I figured this qualified as an emergency. It’s 2016. Who doesn’t have a phone in 2016?”

Derek assumes that’s rhetorical.

“I bought you a limited data plan, too. It was cheap. It’s not much, but you can text me sometimes, I mean, if you want. I put my number in there. It’s under ‘The Sex Bomb.’”

“Classy,” Derek says.

“Yeah,” Stiles grins. “That’s me, classing it up, all day every day.”

*

“Have you ever thought about… you know… _not_ living in that house?” Stiles asks him one night, shifting sideways and kicking his feet up on the dashboard. They’re sitting in Stiles’ Jeep after another group movie night, eating burgers and fries — Stiles’ idea and Stiles’ treat. He treats Derek a lot. It’s like he thinks Derek doesn’t have any money.

Derek does have money, as a matter of fact, and not just from the insurance payouts. He has a job, part-time, at the greenhouse on the other side of town. It suits him. He gets to haul around bags of dirt all day and tend to the plants and not talk to people very much. It’s very zen.

So Derek _does_ have money, and he’s determined to start treating Stiles for a change. Stiles doesn’t make it easy, though. He’s masterful at distracting Derek with chatter or a smile when it’s time to pay for things.

“Why wouldn’t I live in the house?” Derek asks now. “It’s mine.”

Stiles shoots him a look like, _Who even_ are _you?_  “Tell me this. Does your house even have electricity? Running water?”

“Yes. Of course it does.” There’s one working outlet in the kitchen. Derek uses it to run his mini-fridge and charge his flip phone. As for the running water, there’s a perfectly good stream right down the hill from the house.

Stiles looks doubtful. He slouches down a little lower in his seat, getting comfortable, and says, “Okay, but. You can’t tell me that’s your first choice of places to live.”

Derek shrugs. It was there, when he came back to Beacon Hills from New York. It was there, and it had been home his whole life, up until the fire, and he missed it. He’d camped out there on his first night back, and after that he just hadn’t had any compelling reason to leave. He’s a werewolf, after all. He could live in a cave if he had to.

“Can you, like… afford…?” Stiles starts, displaying an unusual level of tact and sensitivity.

“Yes,” Derek says shortly. He _hates_ these moments where it almost seems like Stiles is pitying him. He’s not Stiles’ charity case. He can look out for himself. He was doing just fine before Stiles came along.

“Okay, well,” Stiles says, “at least promise me you’ll think about moving out.”

Derek grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything.

He does think about it, though. He starts looking at things like Stiles might, wondering what _Stiles_ might think of this or that. He thinks about how it’s kind of cold, sometimes, bathing in the stream in the mornings. It’s kind of cold at night, too, when he’s curled up under his lone blanket on his bean bag chair. There’s a draft from somewhere, and sometimes he wakes up shivering. And it’s kind of lonely, too, waking up and not hearing anyone else around for miles. He didn’t used to think it was lonely, but now it’s different. Now he has something to contrast it with: all those evenings out with Stiles and his friends.

Maybe, even for a werewolf, this house isn’t as tolerable as he thought it was going to be. It’s annoying, but maybe Stiles was right. Maybe he should start thinking about moving out.

*

A week later, they’re all at In-N-Out after a bowling night. They go out together all the time, and Stiles keeps inviting Derek to come along. Derek even stays for the meals afterwards now, sometimes at least, and talks to Stiles’ friends.

When they’re all finished and just sitting around talking, Stiles leans back in the booth, stretches contentedly, and casually brings up Isaac Lahey. Derek doesn’t know Isaac as well as some of the others. He’s a freshman at the local community college, making him a little older than most of Stiles’ other friends, and he doesn’t always have time to come out with them, but when he does, he tends to be pretty quiet, like Derek.

Derek doesn’t get why Stiles is bringing him up now, at least not until Stiles says, “So I hear Isaac is looking for a roommate. Just, if anyone’s interested. Just throwing that out there.”

He isn’t looking at Derek in particular as he says it, but he nudges Derek’s calf under the table with his sneaker. Subtle he is not.

Isaac’s number is already programmed in the phone Stiles gave him. Stiles put everyone’s number in there, all his friends. All _their_ friends now, Derek thinks tentatively. Derek stares at the number for half an hour when he gets home. Then he calls him.

The week after that, Derek moves into the spare room in Isaac’s apartment and takes his first hot shower in months. It’s bliss.

*

Stiles lets himself into their apartment all the time. He’s made himself a key; Derek doesn’t comment on it. He likes having Stiles around, likes watching him move and hearing him talk and having his scent in the apartment. He comes over a lot just to hang out, to watch TV with them on the couch or cook with Isaac or pester Derek to help him with his Spanish homework. Sometimes he drops by just to leave Derek things, like posters for the walls and DVDs and pizzas and fuzzy socks. Ambushing Derek with kindness and then disappearing off again.

Part of Derek likes it. It’s like having a pack again, albeit a small one, and it’s nice to be thought of.

Another part of him grits his teeth, because does Stiles _still_ think Derek is so penniless and needy that he can’t even buy himself a pizza? Isaac has even jokingly started referring to Stiles as Derek’s sugar daddy, which is just so much no.

The more Stiles does it, the more Derek grits his teeth.

“I have a job,” he blurts one night when he catches Stiles mid-kindness-ambush. A jar of toffees, this time, because Derek mentioned a few days ago that he liked them.

“I… know?” Stiles says slowly, one hand on the doorknob. “You work at the Beacon Hills Plant Emporium.”

“Yeah, so, I have money.”

“I know,” Stiles says again. He lets go of the doorknob.

Derek deflates a little; he wasn’t expecting Stiles to know that. It doesn’t make _sense_ for Stiles to know that. Stiles looks shifty. Deeper in the apartment, Derek can hear a door creaking — Isaac getting up from his nap. Derek crosses his arms and demands, “So why are you doing all this?”

Stiles blinks, all faux-innocence. He’s not very good at it. “Doing what?”

Derek ignores that. “Is this a pity thing? Like, ‘Poor Derek Hale whose earthly possessions all burned in a fire’?”

Stiles flails. “No! I mean, maybe at first it was, a little, but… no. I know you have money. It’s not — I’m not trying to suggest — Look, it’s because we’re friends, okay? We’re friends, and —”

“And he thinks you’re hot,” Isaac snickers, passing behind them on his way to the kitchen.

“—  _and_ ,” Stiles goes on determinedly, as though he hasn’t heard, “every time I see you I just wanna do nice stuff for you.”

“He wants to do a lot of _nice stuff_ to you, all right,” Isaac calls suggestively over his shoulder.

“Shut up,” Stiles calls after him, flipping him off. 

He’s blushing furiously. Derek feels like he probably is, too. He doesn’t know where to look. Fucking Isaac.

“Wow, okay. I’m just going to…” Stiles gestures awkwardly to the door behind him.

Derek nods, but Stiles doesn’t see it. He’s already in the hallway, door slamming shut behind him.

Well then.

Derek stands there for a moment, staring numbly at the blank expanse of the door and listening to the sound of Isaac microwaving something in the other room.

Then he goes after him. This isn’t the kind of thing he should just walk away from, or let _Stiles_ just walk away from. It’s tempting to let him (Derek can still feel his face burning with embarrassment), but then again, it’s probably not going to be any less embarrassing three hours from now, or three days, so. Why put it off?

It’s pouring rain outside, thick sheets of water. Derek doesn’t want to go back for an umbrella, though. If he goes back inside, he might just wimp out and never come out again. So he pulls the hood of his jacket up over his head, takes a couple deep breaths, and jogs down the stairs to the parking lot.

Stiles hasn’t left. He hasn’t even turned on his Jeep yet. He’s just sitting there, banging his head repeatedly against the steering wheel.

Derek’s a bit concerned.

He walks over and knocks on the driver’s side window, and when Stiles rolls it down (after flailing and honking the horn), Derek doesn’t really know what comes next. There’s just the persistent thought that he shouldn’t let Stiles drive off like this, not when they’re on the brink of something here, and not when Derek’s been thinking about kissing him more or less since the night Stiles first broke into his house.

Stiles stares at him. His hair is a little wet, bangs dripping down into his eyes, but he’s nowhere near as soaked as Derek.

“Do you not own an umbrella?” Stiles frowns. “Or even a poncho?”

Instead of answering, Derek steps up on the Jeep’s running board, leaning his elbows on the sill, and kisses him through the open window. Stiles squeaks out an “Mmmph?” and then, “Mmm, yeah,” in a much more appreciative tone and grabs Derek by the ears to tilt his head to a better angle. They don’t stop until Derek starts to shiver, soaked through to the skin by the rain.

Stiles blinks at him, dazed, and then grins. “Do you wanna go on a date with me? With more kissing?”

Derek grins back. “Yes, but only if you let me pay.”

“I can do that,” Stiles says.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr as [bibliosexxual](http://bibliosexxual.tumblr.com/), where I post more fics that don't always make it to AO3. Let me know if there's something there you want to see cross-posted here. :)


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